


the thing about explorers is

by worrylesswritemore



Series: people screwing in trousers [2]
Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Cheating, F/M, M/M, Marvin Character Study, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, allusions to columbus like whoa, this is basically an in trousers fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 14:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12890148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worrylesswritemore/pseuds/worrylesswritemore
Summary: Bored and just a tad awkward, he looks to the cream walls decorated with family portraits.They’re all dressed more or less the same—the women in dresses, the children in frocks, the men in trousers. The smiles are fake, the eyes are vacant. Marvin can just picture the awkward moment that these photos encase—some old, overweight shrew telling them to “Smile for the camera!” as they cling to one another just like they cling to the idea of happiness as a nuclear family. Marvin feels a sick sense of satisfaction that at least he’s not the only one pretending.:: - ::In 1978, Marvin tries to balance his responsibility as a family man and his attraction to men.





	the thing about explorers is

**Author's Note:**

> _'The thing about explorers is they discover things that are already there.' Columbus closed his diary and went ashore._

It’s a  _ wet  _ sort of heat — the kind that makes the fabric of your clothing stick to your skin like peanut butter to the roof of a mouth.

Even through the walls of the break room, Marvin can faintly hear the mass of fans on the office desks, his coworkers’ vain attempts at combating the heat that the faulty air conditioner has left them powerless against. Marvin himself has already loosened his tie and taken off his sports jacket, but the attempts at cooling down have only just made his reaction to such miserable heat boldly apparent. The darkened areas of his cheap fleece shirt stick to his skin, making the fabric feel more tattoo than clothing. 

The heat of the office is  _ unbearable _ , and Marvin just wants a fucking drink of water.

With the deftness of a dead man walking, Marvin stomps over to the only true reprieve —t he gaudy orange water cooler, balanced hazardously on the counter with the plastic faucet suspended in the open air. Marvin gets one of those flimsy paper cups and turns the nozzle of the cooler. The water pours into the cup at an agonizing pace in short little bursts, making Marvin have to struggle to keep his hand from trembling.

Finally, the cup is filled to the brim, and Marvin brings it up to his calloused lips and knocks it back. With the liquid acting as a lubricant, Marvin cleans his dry throat and wipes the sweat gathering at the top of his lip.

He realizes that he should get back to work — back to filing and answering calls and making spreadsheets and slowly dying with each faux-polite  _ “Are you interested in buying this individually or in bulk?”  _ With quiet resignation, Marvin has accepted his fate, crumbling up the cup with his fist and throwing it into the nearby waste basket.

Then, as he soon as he turns around, he hears a bomb drop.

Marvin turns back around quickly, just as the faucet allows another waterdrop to fall, and Marvin watches as it continues to  _ sail and sail and sail _ _ — _

And  _ strike  _ against the tiled floor, adding to the small puddle on the floor.

And it’s just a faulty water cooler — just that. But it feels like so much more. The faucet lazily continues to drip, but with each addition to the puddle, Marvin hears nuclear warfare in his eardrums.

Marvin calmly walks over and twists the little plastic handle, turning the faucet off more forcefully than he had beforehand.

As if defying its nature and its Maker, the faucet continues to drip — big, fat droplets spilling out of it with an uneven, lazy rhythm. Frowning, Marvin tries again — _ harder _ this time, slamming the handle sideways to the  _ Off  _ position. 

The water cooler is unaffected by the attempt as the  _ drip drip drip  _ continues to pour out on the tiled floor.

Marvin works his jaw, flexes his hands, reminds himself that  _ this  _ doesn’t matter. He tries to leave, but he can’t pull away, can’t stop watching the  _ drip drip drip. _

The water droplets hitting the floor is like an act of  _ violence _ . Marvin feels it like a spit in his face.

Meanwhile, the faucet continues to drip.

And Marvin continues to watch.

Marvin reaches over again and  _ pulls  _ at the handle — hard and fast and without restraint. The handle snaps off with a deeply satisfying pop, lying broken and defeated in his crushed fist. 

And then the  _ drip drip drip  _ stops. The faucet seems to be beaten into submission, enough so that Marvin carefully steps back and can  _ breathe  _ again. He watches it for a second longer, as if his eyes is the only thing keeping the rubberband from snapping, and then slowly he turns away. 

He’s at the threshold of the door when he hears it.

_ Drip drip drip. _

And the next thing happens so very fast.

And then Marvin is standing over the plastic corpse, the ankles of his pantlegs soaked wet with the hiss of the water cooler’s dying breath. The cranium of the water cooler is caved in, vaguely reminding Marvin of his childhood rage in the autumn when he would smash pumpkins with the heel of his shoes.

The moment subsiding, Marvin sighs and straightens his tie. He wipes the sweat gathering at the top of his lip.

On his way out of the break room, he passes a wide-eyed Denise from Accounting.

Meeting her bewildered gaze, Marvin says dispassionately, “The water cooler’s broken.” 

:: - ::

The psychiatrist smiles, joking in a way that (as this psychiatrist often does everything) is perhaps a little professionally inappropriate, “So you had another seizure, then?”

Marvin looks down at his swollen knuckles and hums, just as he often does when the psychiatrist asks an inane question.

“Well, at least you won the fight,” The psychiatrist says but then thankfully sobers up, “You know, heat can be a catalyst for stress — ”

“I didn’t feel stressed.” Marvin corrects sharply, cutting his eyes up at the man.

The psychiatrist pauses in his frantic note-taking and meets his gaze, and Marvin can’t help but be a little impressed.

“What did you feel, Mr. Marvin?” The psychiatrist asks quietly, after a beat.

Marvin rubs his swollen knuckles.

“Angry.” He says, even though he’s lying, even though the real answer is:  _ nothing.  _

_ Absolutely nothing at all. _

:: - ::

After the weekly therapy session, Marvin goes home. He opens the door and walks down the hall, through the living room, into the kitchen. He forces himself to take note of the expensive furniture, the gaudy but pricey trinkets, the warm splashes of color, the photographs of a smiling family.

Truly, a  _ perfect  _ house.

It’s — _ fine. _

“Oh, you’re home.” Trina says as Marvin bypasses her on the way to the fridge for a beer because she has the annoying habit of always stating the obvious.

Marvin asks, “When is dinner going to be ready?”

“Five minutes,” Trina promises, reaching over and kissing his cheek, “I’m making that spinach casserole — you know, the one that Samantha Sumter cooked last week at the barbeque and you said you loved? I got her to give me the recipe.”

Marvin nods, giving her the approval that she’s searching his face for.

He goes and leans on the counter, content to drink his beer and watch her flutter around the kitchen.

She doesn’t ask him to help. She never does.

“How was your day, Dear?” Trina asks pleasantly.

Truly, a  _ perfect  _ wife.

She’s — _ fine. _

That night, they eat dinner in relative silence. Jason brings a book to the dinner table and refuses to engage in pathetic small talk, but it’s fine. Trina laughs too loudly to fill the silence and drinks about a half a bottle of wine, but it’s fine.

Truly, a  _ perfect  _ life.

It’s all — _ fine. _

:: - ::

_ Queen Isabella, who financed Columbus’ trip to America, was his secret girlfriend. In fact, he was her date at a cotillion given by Spanish high society on the occasion of her inauguration; but because he was not royalty, he was made to sit upstairs in her bedroom and, while she cavorted downstairs, he read back issues of Stella d’oro... _

“Remember, you’re taking a long lunch Friday.” Trina says suddenly, settling down on her side of the bed and beginning to apply lotion to her neck and chest..

Marvin looks up from his book, startled, “What?”

A corner of her mouth twitches downward, but the rest of her face stays perfectly frozen in meek resignation, “The family picture, Marv. You’re going to take a long lunch and meet us downtown.”

Marvin feels a deep sense of repellency simmering in his gut, and he says without thinking, “We’re really going to do this now?”

“We’ve been putting it off for three months,” Trina reminds him, a sharp edge to her dull voice, “I asked you if this was a fine date weeks ago, and you said yes. It’s already settled — I made the appointment, I drew the money from the bank, I got all of our outfits picked out — _ We’re doing it. _ ”

Marvin rolls his eyes and closes his book with a loud  _ THWAP,  _ mumbling under his breath, “It’s a waste of time and money.”

Trina replies coldly, without pause or emotion, “Well, that’s all I am anyway to you, so what’s one more burden to throw in?”

Marvin looks at her. She looks back.

Bracing himself, Marvin leans in and kisses her — slowly, with pointed purpose. Her lips are warm and gentle, her breath sweetened with expensive wine. 

She sighs into his mouth, curling a hand in his hair and pressing her lips against his harder. Trina kisses him, and Marvin feels nothing.

Except a lurch in his stomach when she grabs greedily at his crotch.

Marvin pulls away, trying not to sound like he’s holding back vomit, “Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

He turns off the light and rolls on his side, his back facing his wife. Trina takes a private moment before she also turns in for the night, remaining on her side of the bed with a large landscape of cotton between them.

That night, Marvin dreams of hips and legs, lips and moans — they don’t sound nor feel like that of his wife’s, but he tries not to think too long about why that is.

:: - ::

When he gets off of work, he goes to a bar. 

He sits by himself in a holed up corner, nursing a beer and trying to remember what it was like to not be so angry all the time.

_ No, not angry,  _ he corrects himself,  _ more like, dissatisfied. Restless. Frustrated. _

_ Lonely. _

He’s surrounded by people constantly, people that worship him and tell him that they love him, and yet he’s dying in loneliness.

A duo of annoyingly giggly girls flutter by him on their way out, and he catches a whiff of sweet, cheap perfume.

It makes his head spin, reminding him of a different era.

_ She stays stapled to his side like an accessory, prattling on about and pretending not to notice the way that Marvin’s eyes are discreetly glancing over at the sweaty, laughing football players. _

_ “You should try out.” She says suddenly, breaking his concentration. _

_ Marvin laughs because he’s caught off guard, too loudly and brightly, “I don’t think football is my thing.” _

_ “You’ve never tried it,” She points out, sitting closer to him, so that he can smell her sweet, cheap perfume and feel the press of her thigh against his, “Maybe you’d like it.” _

_ Marvin laughs again, manic and giddy with nerves, “I don’t have to try it to know I don’t like it.”  _

_ After a moment, he casually leans away from her and sways forward, watching the football game with boredom and trying to ignore her questioning eyes on him. _

He smiles absently at the thought of his high school sweetheart. They were together for three years.

Marvin can’t remember her name for the life of him.

A young man sits next to him at the bar and orders a drink from the bartender, as oblivious and indifferent to Marvin’s attention on him as those football players were so long ago. But Marvin still looks at him anyway, noticing the sharp curve of his jawline and broad slope of his shoulders. 

And Marvin fingers his empty glass, ignores the kick in his stomach, and watches.

But suddenly, the man glances over at him, a vague look of hostility in his gaze, “Do you need something or...?”

Marvin suddenly comes back into focus. Blindly slapping more than enough cash for the drinks on the bar counter, Marvin gets up and flees, ignoring the man and the way his heart stuttered at the deep voice.

:: - ::

On his lunchbreak, Marvin walks into the family photography shop like a man on his death march. 

It’s a small hole-in-the-wall sort of place, just as Trina described when she scribbled down the address for him. Nobody comes up to greet him as he enters the shop, nor is anyone even in the  _ room _ .

Marvin checks his watch and makes smug note that Trina, like  _ always _ , is late. Bored and just a tad awkward, he looks to the cream walls decorated with family portraits.

They’re all dressed more or less the same — the women in dresses, the children in frocks, the men in trousers. The smiles are fake, the eyes are vacant. Marvin can just picture the awkward moment that these photos encase — some old, overweight shrew telling them to “Smile for the camera!” as they cling to one another just like they cling to the idea of happiness as a nuclear family. Marvin feels a sick sense of satisfaction that at least he’s not the only one pretending.

“I do the best work on this side of New York,” A man’s voice is heard behind him, and when Marvin abruptly turns around, he’s met with a cocky smile and glittery eyes, “Hell, I could make even the Kennedys look functional.”

Despite his bewilderment, Marvin cracks a smile on impulse. 

The man is tall and lean, with big brown eyes and even bigger brown hair. His fitting, fleece shirt is unbuttoned halfway, exposing the tease of chest hair, and his pants are tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination. 

And oh, Marvin does imagine, his eyes flickering up and down more than once, of which he vehemently blames on the shock of his presence and nothing else.

The man sticks out his hand, running his mouth even before Marvin has a chance to shake it, “Whizzer Brown. I’m guessing you’re my nudist model.”

Marvin’s firm handshake turns into a clenched fist, blood running to his face, “I, um — ”

The man laughs, a pretty little tune, “Dude, I’m shitting you.” 

Marvin’s handshake loosens, and the man retracts his hand. For a moment, Marvin’s hand dangles in the air before he musters enough cognizant to lower it.

“I don’t believe you’re the strong-voiced woman that I spoke to on the phone.” The man,  _ Whizzer Brown,  _ points out, stating the obvious with a hint of a teasing grin on his lips.

“That was my—wife,” Marvin says, strangled at the word, before he quickly clears his throat and recovers, “She should be here any time now with our son. She’s never been on time for anything other than our wedding.” He bites back the  _ unfortunately _ , but Whizzer seems to pick up on his sour smile anyway.

“Well, I charge by the hour,” Whizzer reminds him, adding jovially, “I’m basically a hooker.”

Marvin huffs, “Not with your rates.”

Whizzer blinks, apparently not accustomed to customers that tease back.

“An expensive hooker then,” He adds, “But I’ll make the time worth your while, Mr…?”

“Marvin,” Marvin says, the rush and ease of the conversation knocking him off balance.

“Tell me, Mr. Marvin,” Whizzer says, his eyes dropping to take in his customer’s attire, “Most people wear their best when paying a photographer an obnoxious amount of money to take their picture.”

“There’s no amount that I consider an obnoxious amount,” Marvin replies, slightly preening when Whizzer’s eyes light up at that remark, “And this is my best enough. I have to get back to work after this, and I can’t wear — ” He gestures wildly at Whizzer’s making sure to make his hungry gaze seem light and offhanded, “ _ That _ at a place of business.”

“You don’t like this?” Whizzer asks, to which Marvin gulps. Whizzer notices his aversion of the eye and smirks, “You don’t know fashion then, Mr. Marvin. You look like you belong in the fifties with a beer in your hand and a fist raised against your wife.”

With revulsion, Marvin meets his eye straight on, demanding condescendingly, “You consider yourself charming, don’t you?”

Whizzer smiles knowingly, tilting his head, “Well, I don’t know. Do you consider yourself charmed?”

Marvin looks at him, and quite dizzyingly, Whizzer looks back.

“Maybe a little.” He admits, quiet.

Whizzer looks him up and down again, but this time, instead of looking with derision, he licks his lips and smiles.

“So sorry that we’re late!” Trina’s screeching  _ horror  _ of a voice fills Marvin’s eardrums, causing both men to drop each other’s gazes, “The traffic is a nightmare. I almost had a crash on the bypass.”

Whizzer smiles brightly at her, “Don’t worry about it, Ma’am. You got here all in one piece, and that’s the only thing that matters.”

At his bright smile and welcoming eyes, Trina’s stressed expression fades into a smile.

And he  _ is  _ quite charming, isn’t he?

:: - ::

The photography session is a whole ordeal to get through — either Jason keeps blinking or Trina’s face is shrivelled up like an old grape or Marvin apparently didn’t  _ “smile”  _ enough. But finally, Whizzer seems satisfied with the result and they are freed from their frozen positions.

Trina quickly kisses Marvin, prattling off, “I’ll see you at home for dinner.” And then she leaves with Jason, as if in such a rush that she can’t bother to say anything else except a sincere thank you to Whizzer on the way out.

But Marvin can’t say he’s sad to see her go.

Walking over to Whizzer, who is busy reseting his equipment, Marvin slowly takes out his wallet and leafs through the bills. When he does this, Whizzer pauses, eyeing the money shamelessly.

Even though he doesn’t ask, Marvin tips him an extra three dollars, just to see Whizzer cut his eyes up at him like  _ that _ .

“You know,” Whizzer says, slow and pointed, just as Marvin lingers around instead of leaving, “I get off today at five.”

Marvin’s heart leaps to his throat, “Do you now?”

“I’m going to a bar, southside of Sumter and Park,” Whizzer continues, keeping eye contact with him, “You should come.”

“To hang out?” Marvin clarifies, laughing like he once did in high school — manic and giddy and overwhelmingly nervous.

“Among other things.” Whizzer says, his smile widening as he repeats, “You should come.”

Marvin starts to shake his head, but his treacherous mouth says instead, “What’s the address again?”

:: - ::

He’s  _ not  _ going.

Really, he’s not. It’s a waste of time, and — and Trina is making dinner, and it’s probably some malicious set-up to try to trick him. It’s — It’s not real. Is it?   
Seated at his desk, Marvin leans back in his chair and imagines the photographer — _ arrogant, money-hungry, charming… _

_ Queer. _

Marvin swallows, his skin suddenly becoming a bit too tight.

Because it was obvious, wasn’t it? The clothes, the hairstyle, the way he talked and looked at Marvin. Whizzer was a queer, and he flirted with Marvin, and Marvin…

Marvin flirted back.

In hindsight now, he doesn’t know why he did. Why he seemed so...interested — because he  _ wasn’t. _

It was just a  _ game _ , you know. Something to do and pass the time. Something to tell Trina about later and then laugh because the whole situation was  _ ridiculous _ .

Marvin looks down at his hand, the address written in black ink stained on the skin. He should wash it off, pretend it never happened, go home to his family.

But when five rolls around and the workday is done, Marvin goes the opposite way of his house.

Instead of taking a taxi, he walks — to clear his mind, to give him time to find reason and turn back around.

But then suddenly, he’s at the obnoxiously bright-colored building in the wrong side of town, remarking quite hysterically to himself that this isn’t any kind of bar that he’s ever been to. Mustering up what little steady breathing he has left, Marvin quickly enters, his head down and hands clenched at his sides.

The annoying disco song beats at his eardrums, causing Marvin to recoil upon sound. Taking a long breath, he looks up to see a mass of glittery bodies, all in various states of dress. Jesus, it’s only six and these people are acting like it’s midnight in New Orleans.

Marvin tries to find Whizzer, but he’s not anywhere to be seen. A spark of doubt sends a chill down his spine, and he immediately goes to the bar to order a drink. The drink menu is one of humiliating names and possibly-blackout-inducing combinations, so Marvin just sputters out the least dirty one and takes a timid drink.

And then he gulps it down and orders another one.

He’s about two Slippery Nipples deep when Whizzer decides to save him.

“Looks like someone started partying without me.” He acknowledges.

Marvin scoffs, “What else was I supposed to do a bar?”

“Fuck someone in the bathroom stall,” Whizzer responds immediately, “Duh.”

Marvin looks away, out into the wringing bodies on the dance floor. He watches the men, just as Whizzer watches Marvin.

“You seem uncomfortable.” Whizzer says, though they both know that that is not precisely the correct word.

Marvin clears his throat, pointing out gruffly, “This isn’t my scene.”

Whizzer raises a disbelieving eyebrow, “It isn’t, huh?” 

Marvin looks down at his hands.

Apparently deciding to take pity on him, Whizzer leans in and says comfortingly, “If you want, we can go someplace else.”

“Like where?”

“My apartment.”

“ _ Oh. _ ” Marvin looks up at him. Whizzer looks back.

“Okay.” Marvin continues, his mouth buzzing with the word.

**Author's Note:**

> hey, if you liked this, leave a review!
> 
> My tumblr is @moreracquetball


End file.
